Deception On the Danube

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “I did fundraising analysis. I still do although only on a part-time basis because of my travels with Bennett. In my work, I project the potential success of a campaign. I have a talent for seeing what the future might bring, at least in fundraising terms.” She paused once more. “But I don’t seem to forecast the future very well in other areas.”

  Burke decided to change topics. “You look like you do a lot of cycling.”

  “I try to ride as much as my schedule allows. I love the rush of going fast on a flat road, charging downhill and conquering a steep climb. And I love competing. Sometimes, I manage to enter a race or a triathlon, but mostly I fulfil my competitive urges by running in races. I’m training for Vienna’s half marathon right now.”

  “The same one that Talbot intended to go in?”

  “Yes. He told me he was going to do it.”

  Then she did the unexpected and asked Burke about himself.

  So, he told her about being an ex-pro cyclist from Montréal in Canada and about working in TV as a cycling analyst although he left out the part about getting fired for being drunk on air and unleashing a stream of curses during a sprint finish. He told her a little about his blogging and his column writing.

  “That’s it, I guess,” he said. “Nothing too exciting.”

  She pointed an index finger at him. “That’s not true. You left out the part about being involved in a few murder investigations. I Googled you when we were given the names of the guides for the tour. Your involvement in helping solve those crimes was very impressive. At least that’s what the papers said.”

  “They gave me too much credit.”

  “Maybe, but somehow I doubt it. I don’t think you miss much ̶ unlike me.”

  Once again, Burke wasn’t sure what she was alluding to. He sensed she wouldn’t tell him even if he asked.

  “Well, maybe I should take a picture or two before we leave here,” she said, reaching into the back of her orange cycling jersey and pulling out a smartphone. Then she walked to a cliff edge which offered a superb view of the area.

  A moment later, the huge wooden door to the winery opened and out came a handful of Burke’s riders, led by Bennett Blake.

  “That was an excellent purchase,” Blake was telling the others. “In fact, I think it would be a good idea if we sampled some of the product tonight. Anyone interested in joining me?”

  He got a few positive responses.

  Bennett saw Burke looking at him and smiled. “I bought a case of one of their better vintages. A lovely Riesling. They’re going to deliver it this afternoon to our cruise ship.”

  It seemed to Burke the group had done a good job of putting aside the bad news of the morning. He saw some smiles and didn’t hear a word about Wilson Talbot.

  Then he called everyone together. “There is a nice café in Spitz with an excellent terrace. We could stop there for lunch if you want or just head back to the Sunna if you’d prefer that. So, how many are interested in lunch in Spitz?”

  All but two riders indicated they favoured a stop in Spitz. To Burke’s surprise, Felicity Blake was among those voting for the lunch break. The two riders who weren’t interested said they’d return to the cruise ship.

  “OK, I’ll lead the way back to Spitz,” Burke said. “It won’t take long with the descent right in front of us.”

  And he was right.

  They were at the Spitz café in under 10 minutes.

  Excluding the two participants who continued on the road eastward, the group members parked their machines in an area set aside for bikes and then moved toward one large table.

  Burke went inside and talked to a server about the group.

  “Your timing is excellent,” she said. “It’s not too busy, but it will be shortly. We’re expecting busloads of tourists, you know.”

  Back outside, Burke noticed Felicity and Bennett Blake sitting side by side. He was expanding on his wine purchase to a couple of others. Felicity, though, wasn’t talking to anyone.

  Chapter 7

  The server came out and took people’s orders. Minutes later, as she had suggested, the café got busier as two dozen tourists entered, newly dropped off by a bus. Burke heard them speaking Italian. He figured the beer gardens were about to get a lot noisier.

  And they did. But no one seemed to mind.

  During the meal, Burke, who sat at the end of the table, spent most of the time observing his tablemates. They mentioned Wilson Talbot a couple of times, but there didn’t seem much collective sorrow. They agreed he had been a nice young man who worked all the time except for going on the occasional run. Beyond that, he had been a stranger to most of them.

  Neither Felicity nor Bennett Blake contributed any comments about Talbot.

  Burke couldn’t help noticing how Bennett Blake asserted himself over whatever the main conversation was. He did it by injecting all kinds of facts, whether the topic involved politics, business, travel or sports. When the subject drifted into wine, he spoke like he had invented the stuff. There was no doubt Blake had a facility for gathering information, but he also seemed to have a talent for being convincing, too.

  Burke was surprised that the others, some of them powerful Type A personalities, relented before Blake’s desire to dominate any discussion.

  “Blake, I’m always impressed that you know so much about so many things,” said Niklaus Gast, the Swiss who was in his late 50s but didn’t look it.

  Burke wondered if Gast, tall, thin and patrician in demeanor, was needling Blake. There was something in the man’s tone that suggested he might enjoy deflating Blake’s ego.

  Blake smiled in response. “Niklaus, you’ve known me for years. I’m a person who thrives on acquiring knowledge and then distributing it to a willing audience. Of course, it helps that the information is valuable and interesting. That’s why people like to hear what I have to say.”

  Burke saw that Felicity Blake was barely listening.

  Everyone else was, though.

  Gast held up his hands in mock defeat. “I’m sure that’s precisely the case,” he said. He lowered his hands, paused and, glancing at the others watching the exchange, added: “There’s no doubt you’re English, Blake.”

  “Just as there’s no doubt you’re Swiss, Niklaus.”

  Burke didn’t think it was entirely a joking affair. The two men were smiling, but not with their eyes. And, for a moment, there was a lull in the conversation at the table until someone brought the discussion back to Wilson Talbot, asking Blake how long the young man had worked for him.

  Blake paused, almost theatrically, thought Burke, and then said: “He was with me from the time he finished university. He was an intern in my office and he showed great promise. A very quick learner. So, I offered him a position and he’s been with me ever since – or was with me.”

  No one said anything.

  “It’s hard to believe he’s gone,” Blake added.

  There was much nodding of heads around the table.

  Burke saw Felicity Blake staring at her husband. There was no malice in her face, but no warmth either. Just a look of surprise.

  Blake motioned for the server to come over. “Another two bottles of your best white wine.”

  Two minutes later, she was back, opening the wine.

  “Normally, I would suggest we let the wine breathe, but I think it’s more important that we all fill our glasses right now and drink together to Wilson Talbot,” Blake said.

  And so they did with Blake leading the toast.

  Burke watched as nearly everyone took a sip and placed their glasses on the table. Blake, however, was different, closing his eyes as he swirled the wine around in his mouth and then swallowed. When he opened his eyes, he smiled.

  Burke thought Bennett Blake was moving on nicely after the death of his assistant.

  Chapter 8

  After lunch, they rode slowly back, their energy sapped by the food, the wine, th
e beer and the early-afternoon heat.

  As they approached the cruise ship, Burke saw two extra police cars in the area. He also noticed four officers, including Karl Plaschke, standing and talking.

  “Herr Blake? Frau Blake?” Plaschke said, approaching Burke’s group.

  Burke noticed the English couple exchange a quick glance.

  “Yes,” Bennett Blake replied.

  “We need to talk to you again.”

  “All right,” Blake replied. “We just need to get rid of our bicycles.”

  Plaschke nodded.

  Blake turned to Burke. “Can you put away our bikes for us, Paul?”

  Burke nodded, feeling it had been more a demand than a request. He wasn’t offended, though. After all, he was the hired help. “Just lean them on that bench and I’ll look after them,” he told the Blakes.

  Moments later, the Austrian policeman led the couple onto the ship under the gaze of the rest of Burke’s group. Once they disappeared, there were several exchanges of puzzled looks.

  Burke took charge and thanked the group for the ride, adding he would lead another trip the following morning if the tour was still in Dürnstein.

  Then the group dispersed.

  As he got ready to put away his machine and those belonging to the Blakes, Burke saw Thierry Delisle walking toward him. If anything, Burke thought Delisle looked happier – or less worried.

  “How did the ride go?” Delisle said.

  Burke told him it went well.

  “Good, good. Things are looking up. The police have told us we will be able to resume our tour tomorrow morning, barring some last-minute change of mind on their part which seems unlikely.”

  “But what about the interviews? Have they done them all?”

  “They said they expect to be finished soon,” said Delisle with a classic Gallic shrug. “They’ll write up some kind of a report and then we can get back to our schedule. It’s just a case of a tragic accident, nothing more. As for Monsieur Talbot’s funeral arrangements, his family has been notified.”

  “So, do the police know what happened to him?”

  “They aren’t saying exactly, but it was an accident. It seems Monsieur Talbot was hiking up to the castle at twilight to get a sunset view of the river and missed a step and fell onto some rocks. Easy to do when it’s getting dark.”

  “So, you’ve been talking to the police.”

  “I’ve had a few short conversations with them. They say accidents have been known to happen up at the ruins.” Then Delisle clapped his hands and smiled. “On another front, your friend Claude and Reinhard have been busy in the kitchen with their staff and will be serving a special late lunch for those who didn’t eat in Spitz. That should put people in a better mood.”

  Burke nodded.

  “And it’ll help to put a smile on your face, too, Paul. I know this has been a difficult day – a sad one, too – but we need to bring some pleasure back to our clients and their families and staff. So, even if you don’t really feel like it, try to seem happy.”

  Burke nodded, adding a slight smile.

  Delisle patted Burke on the shoulder and marched off.

  Minutes later with all the bikes locked away on board the ship and having changed his clothes, Burke was in the dining room which was rapidly filling up. He was surprised, having thought most of those on the tour would prefer spending time alone or in town.

  “People still want to stay close to home, it seems,” said Renata Hable, walking up to Burke.

  “I thought the dining room would be almost empty.”

  “Maybe it’s your friend Claude’s cooking. And Chef Reinhard’s, too.”

  Burke glanced at the Dutchwoman who seemed to have a twinkle in her eye. Was it possible she was attracted to Claude?

  Thierry Delisle walked up to them, his assistant Carmen Moreau right behind him. Burke had wondered where she had been earlier in the day. Usually, she was within a metre of her boss, always ready to obey some order, type in some note or take photos or video of the group, the essence of quiet competence despite being only in her mid 20s.

  “Spread out and engage with our people, if you please,” Delisle said in a low voice.

  Burke and Hable nodded and went in different directions.

  Burke saw someone wave at him.

  It was Eric Chapman, the Canadian from Toronto who was sitting at a table with his wife and teenage son. Kendall Young and his girlfriend were with them.

  Groaning to himself at the thought of getting stuck at a table with Young, Burke smiled and walked over, knowing it was his job to mingle.

  “Please join us, Paul,” Chapman said.

  Burke pulled out a chair and sat, saying hello to everyone.

  Burke liked Chapman, who was in his late 30s like Burke but looked younger with short blond hair, brilliant blue eyes and a tall, thin build; if anything, he looked like the prototype Swedish male although Burke knew Chapman was Toronto-born and bred.

  Burke also liked Chapman’s wife Kristin Wagner, who was as dark as her husband was blond, with almost-black eyes that radiated intelligence and an intensity that was probably a good thing since she was a high-powered lawyer specializing in corporate litigation. He thought she could be an intimidating presence if you were seated opposite her in a courtroom.

  Their son Matthew looked 17 or 18, but had the maturity of someone years older. Dark like his mother but lanky like his dad, the boy always paid attention to a conversation whether it was in English or French, a trait Burke found impressive in a member of the new generation.

  Kendall Young introduced his girlfriend, Andrea Beltran, who had the dark golden skin of someone from the Mediterranean but who, as it turned out, originated from New Mexico. She shook hands with Burke with an exceedingly firm grip; she looked like she knew about the better things in life, but her hand strength belonged to a lumberjack.

  “And what do you do for a living?” asked Burke, intrigued to know what she did that would give her such a powerful grip.

  “I’m a freelance translator specializing in agricultural matters.”

  Burke figured she did push-ups between assignments to get so strong.

  “We were going to go shopping, but since there are only about a half dozen real shops in town, we came back here,” Young said. “Good timing, though. I’m hungry again.”

  To Burke’s surprise, Young didn’t complain about anything. In fact, he transitioned into a pleasant table companion, listening to others and occasionally asking questions.

  Once again, though, there was little mention of Wilson Talbot.

  Until Matthew Chapman asked if there were funeral plans for Talbot.

  “Good question, Matthew,” Eric Chapman said.

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Kendall Young.

  Nor had anyone else.

  For his part, Burke hadn’t thought for a moment about what would happen with Talbot’s body.

  “I expect there are quite a few legal steps that need to be taken,” Kristin Wagner said. “I believe the Austrians place a greater value on bureaucracy than even we do.”

  Burke wondered if Delisle had ideas for some kind of memorial service for Talbot. He made a mental note to ask his boss. If there was one, Burke expected he’d be assigned some kind of task.

  Moments later, he spotted Delisle turning on the dining room sound system and holding the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentleman, your attention please. Our kitchen staff will be bringing out platters for a buffet lunch, but before they do, I would ask us all to bow our heads for a minute’s silence for our friend and colleague, Wilson Talbot.”

  Burke wondered how many people thought they were a friend or colleague.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Everyone, Burke saw, bowed their heads as requested.

  Even Bennett Blake.

  When the minute was over, most of the crowd attacked the buffet. Burke’s table
mates led the charge, but he wasn’t hungry because of the Spitz meal, and was content to sit back and watch.

  The day was barely half over and he was exhausted.

  He wondered what the next few hours would bring.

  Chapter 9

  Nothing really happened after the late lunch. Most of the passengers returned to their cabins, probably to have a siesta after such a huge buffet. A few left the Sunna and walked into the village. No one opted to go for another bike ride.

  Burke wasn’t sure what to do and so he just stayed in his chair as the room emptied.

  Then Thierry Delisle, with Renata Hable at his heels, walked over.

  “Our people seem to have relaxed,” Delisle said. “That’s good. It’s already been a difficult day.”

  Burke asked if Delisle wanted him to do anything.

  “Just check that the bikes are ready for tomorrow’s ride. By the way, the route will be our scheduled one along the Danube, not the side trip I asked you to plan. The police have indicated we can leave here by 10 tomorrow morning. That means we’re back on track minus one day. Our next stop will be Krems.”

  Burke nodded. Was the investigation into Wilson Talbot’s death finished?

  Then Delisle said he needed to do some planning with Hable and so they left.

  Burke was alone in the dining room except for three servers cleaning up the tables. Then he spotted Claude strolling toward him, holding two thin glasses and a small pitcher of water.

  “Judging by your face, Paul, I think you need a pastis,” Claude said, dropping on the chair beside Paul.

  Burke was surprised at seeing pastis in Austria and said so.

  “Well, I agree it’s not something you find around here which is why I brought it with me from home,” Claude said, adding a dash of water to his glass and watching it turn milky white. “I also figured I probably wouldn’t end up drinking alone, you being a pastis aficionado.”

  Burke smiled and poured a heftier measure of water into his pastis. He didn’t want anything too strong. “You’ve been busy, Claude.” He was glad to have the company, knowing the bikes could wait.

  Claude took a sip from his pastis and nodded his approval. Then he looked at Burke. “Reinhard and I had to go full speed to be prepared, but he’s a good man without the massive ego of so many chefs these days and we get along wonderfully. Plus, he has real talent. He’s at least as good as I am. It also helps that we have two eager, smart sous-chefs.”